


Shattered Glass

by kenjiiatosh



Series: Substandard Shelves [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, attempts at making up, post-breakup conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:39:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenjiiatosh/pseuds/kenjiiatosh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk Strider is not prepared to face his ex, but by the time he's ready to flee, Jake's already there.</p><p>No choice but to face him now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Glass

Fourteen minutes. It takes you fourteen minutes to walk to Madhatters and find yourself situated in the table the most far off to the right. Back corner, the most isolated area you can find here. You don't remember this tea house ever being so popular, but then again you haven't been here in ages. You haven't bothered to go out or to keep updated with places that used to hold your interest. It all seems so pointless now, playing favorites, when each location is just as well suited to an awkward post-breakup conversation as any other. No matter where you place yourself, you think, that same bitter silence is going to be hanging over your shoulders. That same tension is going to build up between your muscles, and you are going to regret ever coming.

  
You wish the walk had been longer.

  
You wish Jake had never come into your life in the first place.

  
(No you don't, you can't, you never could. He's too big a part of who you are, played too big a role in forming who you are now, and you don't think you would ever have changed things were you given the chance.)

  
You lay your head in your hands, fingers raking through strands of blonde as you lose yourself in your thoughts. Betrayal bruises your heart, were you ever to admit to having one, false hope staining your soul. Trust has always been hard for you. You're too much of a loyal dog to hand it out so effortlessly and without doubt, too protective of those close to you to be swayed so easily. It was difficult, but you made it work. Found those few who managed to come across as trustworthy to you, who proved themselves over time as they worked their selves into your life. Now you hear a ringing in your ears, feel dizzy at the reflection as uncomfortable musings clutch at your stomach.

  
Sick.

  
You're going to be sick, and you have to leave, you have to flee. You have to cancel and run from your problems, run from Jake fucking English - the man who single handedly ruined your life.

  
Only, when you look up he's there, standing between the side frames of the door, looking just as unsure as you feel. His eyes scan the room, and you can feel them hunting you out. Panic starts to rise in your throat in the form of vile, but you swallow it down along with your pride in favor of acting civil and undisturbed. You won't let him know how much it kills you to be seated here. You won't show any emotion, just as stone cold as you acted the first of your meetings. Instead you turn your head to the window, allowing your eyes to drift over darker colored skin from behind the safety of the corner of your shades. You can feel it, that piercing gaze of green, settle upon your table. Surprise, surprise, Dirk Strider has chosen to hide in the back. You can't help but think it would have probably been more of a challenge to him had you sat yourself in the front of the building, or perhaps dead center amongst many others dining locally.

  
That would have been fitting, too. He would have made it seem so exhilarating somehow, made a mountain out of a molehill. Despite staking your claim on the title and taking your rightful place as king of challenges, you know he likes them just as well. You know he always tries to make the most of any trial provided; making them into an adventure is part of the challenge anyhow. You aren't sure how he stays satisfied here, in a city with so little to offer, but he does. Maybe you should have been the one to move, the one to leave for a fresh start rather than stubbornly staying put and confining yourself to your apartment. You could have moved to some suburban area, somewhere far from Texas, possibly out of the states. It didn't have to be rural, there was an in between after all, not simply city and country. You never could break your bonds, though, and part of you did always wish for this chance - for the possibility of fixing such a broken relationship as the one between the two of you. Now you're seated here, though, and wish more than ever you had left. You wish you were unbound, able to soar far away from what you once considered home. Something tightens in your chest, and you think for the hundredth time this day that coming here was a mistake.

  
So lost in your thoughts, it isn't until Jake is standing before your table with a faulty smile placed upon his face that you realize he had moved at all, let alone in your direction. Too late now, too late to leave.

  
"May the saints preserve us! Strider, Dirk dearest chap of mine, how long has it been? Why, I know we only spoke this morning, but golly! I haven't seen your face in, dare I say, months. It's hotter outside than two rabbits screwin' in a wool sack! May I sit?" He motions to the seat opposing you, and you can't help but feel proud at hearing the slight southern tang that now taints his speech. Years in the south will do that to you, most certainly.

  
His voice lacks that enthusiasm that is so Jake English, though - rough, like broken glass - and you realize he must be nervous. He shouldn't be, he shouldn't be but he is and you are too. You're both nervous even though there isn't a reason to be, not a real one at least. You can just remember how he used to speak when he was nervous, telling you that he was 'sweating like a sinner in a church'. You used to slap him on the back and tell him to be a man, get over it, but he could read you well enough to hear the implied "it's alright. I'm here, we're good." You don't want to spend your day sitting here reminiscing, though, so you make a show of turning your head to face him and nodding. You weren't looking for him, watching him; You weren't sitting here in agony waiting.

  
You're surprised that as he sits, he doesn't mention how any proper gentleman would have risen to greet their company, would have stood and shaken hands before sitting synchronously.

  
(You two used to be so in synch, so connected.)

  
"I suppose I should start with an apology. I wasn't jesting when I told you I missed you, you know. A poor excuse is better than none, or so I've heard, but I can't think of a single thing to say that would bring even an ounce of justification to the treatment I gave you." You almost smile, because you can see he's trying. He isn't half-assing it, and you can tell he isn't finished, the remaining of his speech yet to pour from his lips. Jake English could almost ramble as well as you. "I would say I wish we could do it all over, but It's pointless now. Too late to lock the barn after the horse is already stolen, I suppose."

  
There's another stretch of silence, and you can tell this is meant to be where you step in. Where you make it or break it, decide if it's time to forgive and forget or to continue holding onto your grudge and push Jake as far from you as possible. The catch? You aren't ready. You aren't ready to decide or discuss this, and you doubt you ever will be. You need more time, even if it's only a few minutes. God damn, the boy just sat down! When has English ever been so straightforward?

  
Never. Never before.

  
(Damnit, he must be serious.)

  
Instead you study the floor, though you know he can't tell from where he's seated. You're going to backpedal, you know you are, and put as much distance between the topics as you can. "Nice to see you too, English. Been a while, see you haven't changed a bit." Deflect, return all points back to him, don't let this become about you. Don't let him have this, don't let him get to you.

  
"And I see you're still wearing those dad blasted shades of yours! Really, we're indoors, they're about as useful as a screen door on a submarine." You shake your head, giving props to him for bringing up the topic without fully addressing it. He doesn't like that you're wearing them again, he doesn't like that you have so little faith in yourself and such little self confidence that you've returned to the wall of protection that they offer you. Eyes shielded, he's always hated that. It seemed an unfair advantage, having so much expression obscured from his sight. Of course, you don't let much seep through anyway, but having them comforts you nonetheless.

  
"Always doubting, English. Stay a while, why don't you? Order something." Stop making this about me, you think, not really having a better answer to his retort. His eyes light up at this, seemingly having forgotten that you two were indeed in a tea house, and he jumps at the chance to pick through the names and see which teas he has yet to try. It isn't the most masculine quality, especially for someone who claims himself to be such a daring adventurer, but you've come to ignore the boy's strange ways. After all, Jake has always been a bit unpredictable. Despite his savage upbringing and constant need for some sort of adrenaline rush, he's more formal and polite than you would have ever imagined you could grow fond of. Manners is what you think you're going for, but Jake wouldn't have it labeled as anything other than being gentlemanly and proper.

  
As he orders his beverage, you steel yourself for the upcoming conversation, unsure for just how long you'll be able to put it off. You sit there in silence until his cup is brought, and wait until he's drinking to finally speak.  
"What have you been up to in all this time?" You can't help but think of how weak you are when it comes to conversing. You can't even discuss the topic at hand, the most important issue, the reason you gathered here in the first place. Instead you fall short, leer to the left, bring up a matter completely trivial and irrelevant. Back peddling, always back peddling.

  
You'll go nowhere at this rate.

  
He smiles, though, buck teeth just as prominent as they always have been. You don't mind, really. Adds to his goofy charm. You're three seconds away from falling into another period of reminiscing when he speaks, ember eyes trained on where he must assume yours are hidden, only separated by the thinnest sheet of black plastic.

  
"I returned to travelling, of course! Wasn't quite the same without you by my side, though. Better to have something and not need it than to need it and not have it, after all." You inwardly cringe. You think he meant that as a compliment of some sort, words spoken to reassure you, but it only serves to worsen your mood. Not that you're sure it can get much lower, but the phrasing places you in the spot of an object, an item to be found in rows and on shelves. Replaceable. Perhaps it was your own fault for providing such a chilly demeanor that everybody seems to think you're invincible and without a heart. That they think none of this hurts you, none of this affects you, but you didn't come here radiate self-pity and wallow in your troubles. You keep quiet, refrain from opening your lips as Jake continues.

"I returned to Australia for a bit, just to see some relatives and friends that I hadn't heard from since moving here. It was grand, but it got dull agonizingly quick, so I buckled up and took another tour of my own. Islands in Venezuela, the Colca Canyon in Peru, even the Tsitsikamma Trail in South Africa! Gee, were those sights striking!" He never really did need someone to stroke his ego, nor did he you ever have to bend his arm to have him open up. You can tell that English still has no trouble whatsoever in indulging you with full details of his life, or with doing the talking for both halves of the party. That's fine with you though, it always has been, so you let him do enough rambling for the two of you.

←←↔→→

The conversing continues like this for the next fifteen minutes. He tells you of ruins he visited, temples he saw, trails he climbed. Each story varies, widely different from the previous one. You can appreciate it, the dissimilarity, and how each one brings a different smile of his into play. It's almost as if he's reliving each adventure as he tells them, surely remembering each trip with fondness, with an affection only ever placed up his travels.

You resist the urge to swear under your breath when he halts the conversation, only to turn it back to what this meeting was intended for.

Your relationship.

"This is swell, Dirk, but I must say that I do believe it's high and mighty time we discuss what we gathered here for."

Shit.

"I shouldn't say that I expect forgiveness, or to regain your trust and friendship, and I especially shouldn't expect to rekindle our relationship. I shouldn't, but I'm going to nonetheless. If there is one thing I am not, that's a quitter, and I refuse to give up so easily! What do I have if not hope? You're important to me, whether you believe so or not, and I'm prepared to do anything to win back you and your favor - as much of it as I can."

You curl your fingers into a fist, clenched tight enough to turn your knuckles white. Thankfully you had the sense to keep your hand hidden beneath the table, otherwise you might have lost your cool and lunged. You want to admire him for caring so much, for attempting to fix this. You want to show your affection and pride and allow yourself to give in and forgive him. You want to, but you can't. Not yet, He's still speaking of you as if you are nothing more than a prize to earn, and you refuse to be a trophy wife.

"I'm not an object, Jake. Don't speak to me as if I am."

A look of confusion fills Jake's expression - eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, and head titled ever so slightly. He must not have caught it, he must not have realized exactly what it was he said. You wonder if his skull can get any thicker, how much more can fly over his head.

Is he always this far gone?

You don't feel like indulging him, though, you don't want to waste your time trying to explain. He won't understand that he's referring to you in that same sort of way, as if you're just a trinket he wants sitting upon his shelf. A decoration is all. Instead you do your best to breathe, to loosen your grip and unclench your fist before speaking. "This isn't going to be easy. I'm not a love sick puppy who's just dying to be by my masters side once again. You don't leave for a sixth month vacation and pick up a bone on the way home, expecting me to wag my tail and jump at the chance of seeing you again. You don't-"

"I know."

You stop speaking, mouth hanging opening before you can gather your wit and close it. Did Jake English really just cut you off mid metaphor? It shouldn't be so striking, it really isn't - but what is, is the fact that he's ready to face this challenge. He didn't cut you off to spew nonsense, or to correct you, or simply because he likes to hear himself talk. He did so to spare you time, because he knows you and that it's valuable to you. He knows that you don't want him here to waste it, that he isn't really worth it. You're making a sacrifice by being here. You like to calculate and plan, and you certainly didn't account for this. He knows he is messing up your schedule, and he wants to _fix_ it. So much spoken in just two words, so much shown to you.

You always did read each other well.

He sounds more mature, too. As if he knows what he is talking about. You hope he does. You hope that you really can work this out. Being honest with yourself? You miss him, too. You miss those quirky smiles, those green eyes so vibrant and brightly colored that nothing equals their splendor. You miss seeing him every day, having to practically drag him out of bed every morning. You miss his off key attempts at singing, and the toast he would force you to eat as you cooked him breakfast. You aren't sure where  your bad health habits started, but you know they were better when you were around Jake. He made sure you ate, compelled you to take breaks, and even demanded you sleep. Laying there would often be enough to satisfy him, enough for him to release you after eight hours of restlessness, but what you never told him was how often you actually did drift off. Having him in your arms - a body was the very essence of heat and comfort, after all - was enough to relax your strain. Temporarily, at least. It was enough for you to let your guard down, to close your eyes and shut off your mind.

You'd only admit this to yourself, but you even miss those darker days. Days when he would leave without word for stretches of time, when he wouldn't get in contact with you for days on end. He'd blame the signal, or a dying battery, or no internet access. Every time. It was always the same, and you never believed a word of it. What else could you do, though? So you kept your mouth shut, nodded along as if it was all alright. As if you couldn't tell your relationship was falling apart. The socially inept freak as you were, and even you could tell something was wrong. At least then, though, you saw him every now and again. At least then, he would _act_ affectionate towards you. As if he cared.

With a sigh, you realize just how badly you have to do this, just how badly you need to satisfy your call for confrontation. It's almost a basic essential in your life. Quarrelling. You hope it doesn't reach that far, you hope you can settle this otherwise. Talking was never a strong point for you, but there's no other way. You can't slash your way through this, you can't punch or tear or rip or grab. You can only do your best to converse, and to spill out what you've held onto for over a year now. You hope the words pour out, you hope they flow from your lips as easily now as what you've imagined so many times before. All that built up anger, stored away to hurt no one other than yourself. Now is your chance, but you have to handle it appropriately.

No yelling. No screaming. No need for rooting up unnecessary and painful memories. It's time to be the man you claim you are, and face your issues head on.

You remove your shades, folding them before placing them on the table; you can't hide behind them any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wasn't going to post this because I wasn't sure of the content/length, but look, here it is.  
> I'd _like_ to write more if I can. That was part of the reason I was so unsure about posting - I'm not sure if the conclusion (?) will be long enough to stand on it's own, really. Nonetheless, I decided to put this up because I believed it to be a good place to stop, as well as to have the ability to stand alone with only these two works. I don't want to feel pressured into writing the rest, sorry.


End file.
